an ode to my morning pages journal

an excerpt from today's writing:

freida is yowling at the bathroom door, i am sitting facing the trees and the coffee is brewed and cooling, in a mug i love that i purchased from the goodwill downtown, before i take my first sip. it's 6:54 am, a bit later than i'd like but early enough so that it doesn't break my streak.

i've called out to freida, an unspoken stop laced in the tone of her name, and she's understood (of the two, freida has always been more obedient) and walked over to the living room, where i'm sitting now.

hm.. living room.

it's somehow funny to me, the truth in that name. i sleep here, i eat here, i wind down in this room. i live a lot of my life in it. the time spent in this room is only rivaled by the time spent in the office, which used to be my bedroom.

suki has jumped out from under the futon to scare freida and freida has jumped up so comically i've lost my train of thought haha.

i think i'll take my sip of coffee now.

this particular morning pages journal did not start out as such, like it's predecessor before it. they were notebooks i had bought, started and abandoned years ago and so i decided to finish them up by using them for the morning pages practice. this particular one has its first entry dated october 14, 2020. i'll share a version of what that entry says at some point in the future, but for now, i'll give you a preview of the first sentence: "is it weird that i'm more attracted to the idea of being born again than to live eternally as the person i am?"

i hadn't started my antidepressant medication back then, i hadn't gone through therapy and we were in the relative start of the pandemic. what's interesting is that, despite my terrible memory, i remember asking a question to my best friend prompted by this sentiment. i wouldn't have remembered that ever, i don't think, unless this journal entry had asked my brain to recall it.

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what's so special about journaling is that it allows us the gift of witnessing ourselves grow. we may forget, we may not realize… but the journal pages become a marker in time to thoughts and ideas and beliefs that shift. to go back to these pages, whether happily or apprehensively, is to witness who we were when we wrote them and acknowledge the way our lives and our souls have changed.

my final sentence in this journal: "i'm glad this notebook is ending. it feels like the closing of this book represents a departure of the me who is embedded in the pages. archiving it is a way to say goodbye." is the goodbye a good one, a bittersweet one, a sad one? i think for me, with this particular journal, it's a bittersweet one.

but that feeling will fade.

my morning pages journals are not ones i intend to look back on often, if at all. i don't throw them away simply because i am afraid of losing the versions of me in them. but, ideally, i would burn them or dispose of them because they are meant to be a tool for the moment not a keeper of memories. be that as it may, it will keep my first morning pages notebook company on the shelf and that truth brings me joy.

i give it a soft thanks and i put it away. tomorrow, i'll start a new notebook and embed its pages with the versions of me i am now.

"what a gift it is to witness oneself grow".

an unfinished page in my magpie journal

title fragments of a selection of notes i’ve created this week in my obsidian vault to serve as possible prompts for you

• “paying attention is a form of reciprocity”

• “intention and presence”

• “a collectors mentality or a researchers?”

• “a concise history”

• “dissipates and returns”

• “a practice is more than a hobby”

a question for you

i would be grateful if you’d share your opinion with me, dear reader, regarding the days i release these letters to you and if you have a preference. please take a few moments to vote in the poll below if you could. i would greatly appreciate your feedback <3

and with that, i’ll leave you with a quote i collected this week (you can watch a video where i did some quote harvesting here if you’d like)